


The Missing Warbler

by virdant



Category: Glee
Genre: Bonus surprise rare-pair!, Dalton Academy, Friendship, M/M, Male Friendship, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25329976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant/pseuds/virdant
Summary: Detective Hunter Clarington is summoned to Dalton Academy to find a missing Warbler. In the course of his investigation, he unearths more than he expected.For Seblaine Week 2020 Day 6: Dalton
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Sebastian Smythe, one-sided Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel
Comments: 26
Kudos: 71
Collections: Seblaine Week 2020





	The Missing Warbler

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to dana, anis, ellie, and all of the people who were lovely and encouraging when i said i wanted to write a mystery.

Hunter Clarington approached Dalton Academy with steady feet despite any trepidation he was feeling. He was many things: a leader, a captain, determination and cunning wrapped in a tight bundle of Get It Done. And, he was here to Get It Done, no matter his personal feelings on the matter. Hunter shouldered his bag and eyed the building before him. It had been years since he’d last been here. Dalton Academy loomed tall and majestic, the type of building that enticed wealthy parents to send their sons into. Stone walls on the other side of an iron-wrought gate. It looked the same as it had when he’d walked away that first time.

Wesley Montgomery was standing by said iron-wrought gate. Lean, Asian, and shorter than his posture implied. He always carried himself with authority, and despite his height, managed to assert himself without towering over others. He was standing straight and tall now; Montgomery didn’t have the decency to lean against the side of gate in practiced ease or slouch. He did have his hands in his pockets, but his posture was still ramrod straight, as it always was. Even the crisp early February wind didn’t break his posture. He was the exact type of student that Dalton Academy accepted: wealthy, proper, and with a streak of intelligence that lent itself well to future endeavors. Hunter wouldn’t be surprised to hear Montgomery’s name on the news in the future, in whatever career he chose.

“Montgomery,” Hunter greeted, as he approached.

“Clarington,” Montgomery replied. He had a firm handshake, the type that offered confidence without insecurity. There were the familiar callouses on the tips of his fingers, from all of the writing he did by hand.

Greetings exchanged, Hunter hefted his bag higher on his shoulder. Mr. Puss was still peaceful in his carrier, but there was no need to aggravate him for much longer. “Tell me your problem.”

Montgomery was too polite to roll his eyes at Hunter’s domineering ways. “Welcome back to Dalton,” he said, only a little pointedly. The two of them had known each other for a while, their family’s social circles overlapping. The last time they had met in person had been years ago, when Montgomery had already started at Dalton, and Hunter had passed through the area. Nothing had happened, and contact had faded. Still, Montgomery made a habit of staying informed about his social circles, and Hunter almost always had information available. 

As a detective, if Hunter wasn’t in the thick of things, then he knew somebody who was. There were always plans and more plans churning away at the back of his head, files of information slotting into place. He might have met Wesley Montgomery through a social mixer when they were younger, but they maintained their acquaintance because Montgomery had a keen eye and an even keener mind, and Hunter could appreciate that. 

Still, it had been a while since the last time they had talked. Montgomery had called about two years ago, talking about some project he’d taken on, asking Hunter about some event he’d heard rumor of, trying to pick information out of Hunter that Hunter didn’t have. Hunter hadn’t had anything to give him, and they’d parted on polite terms, though Montgomery had been disappointed. Montgomery hadn’t reached out afterwards, even though they’d had a regular correspondence previously, their usual pleasantries faded, until one week ago, when Montgomery had called and asked Hunter to come look into a situation for him.

Hunter, after two years of silence, had agreed.

Hunter didn’t bring up that two-year silence, and Montgomery had Dalton Academy manners, so none of that old disappointment was showing as he made polite small talk and only polite small talk as he led Hunter down the halls: dark wood paneling and pale stone floors. He occasionally pointed out an interesting piece of art on the walls—Dalton Academy had many donors after so many years of churning out successful alumni. Hunter took in the information with a grain a salt. Montgomery wasn’t the type to lie, but there was no telling what misinformation had proliferated through the school.

Instead of taking him to a room for him to drop his bags off, however, Montgomery led him down the halls to the senior commons. It was helpfully labeled with a brass plaque. He was getting straight to business then, which meant that Montgomery took this situation more seriously than his original message might have implied. _Come by and look into something for me, might take a few days_ had suggested a situation where Montgomery’s manners would show him to a place where he could drop his bag off first.

Hunter’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m glad you came by,” Montgomery said, at last.

Hunter offered him a smirk. “Going to share your problem before we walk in? Or are you still playing it to your chest?”

Montgomery smiled back. “Pavarotti’s missing.”

He spared a second to wonder why Montgomery had called him instead of getting the police or other authorities involved, before deciding on a more important question. “You have a Warbler named Pavarotti?”

“Yes.”

It was an interesting name. But Hunter had done his research ahead of time, and he had checked the Warbler rosters already. There weren’t any students with that name, first or last. Still. “What did he do to get saddled with that nickname?”

Montgomery looked pleased that Hunter had picked up on his little trick. “Well, he’s not a student,” and opened the door to the crowd.

The Warblers were gathered in the senior commons around a table, all clad in Dalton blue blazers. They weren’t singing, which was better than most Warbler surprises that Montgomery had sprung on him in the past. Many of them were in quiet conversation, though there was a distinctly furious expression on a few faces.

“Warblers,” Montgomery said, and his voice cut easily through the low chatter. “May I present Hunter Clarington, who has come to assist our situation.”

Hunter had a moment to take in the room: a fireplace to the side, large plush chairs, old wooden furniture. The walls were lined with shelves filled with books. The Warblers themselves were clustered around one table in particular, instead of spreading themselves out by grade or class assignments. There was an iron-wrought cage that they were gathered around, and at Montgomery’s voice, their attention shifted.

Hunter studied them all, blazers and ties neat and slacks pressed. There was a diverse range of heights and ages—the Warblers recruited actively from all grades. In the center of the cluster was a short and stocky Warbler with dark hair slicked neatly back. He met Hunter’s gaze with a glimmer in his eye.

“Hello.” Hunter set his bag down. He said, “I hear you have a problem for me to solve.”

Montgomery stepped forward and made eye contact with a tall Black man dressed in the Dalton uniform. The man offered a hand to Hunter. “Good to meet you, Hunter. Wes speaks highly of you. I’m David,” he said, pleasantly. “Take a seat and we’ll explain the situation.”

David wasn’t quite Montgomery, but the others in the room listened when he spoke. He was somebody with authority in this bunch, then. Hunter scanned the room as he found an armchair in close proximity to the table with the empty birdcage. He was starting to get a sense of what was happening, but there was no need to rush to conclusions. David turned to a table at the edge of the room, Montgomery moving to stand beside him, and another boy—short, dark hair and dark eyes—peeling away to flank Montgomery on the other side, brushing the wrinkles out of his pants as he did so. There were three chairs arrayed in a row, behind the table, as if it was where they regularly sat. They sat.

The rest of the Warblers settled themselves quietly.

Montgomery cleared his throat. “We’ve asked you here to find the location of our fellow Warbler, Pavarotti.”

Hunter glanced at the cage, and then back at Montgomery. “A bird?” he confirmed.

Montgomery smiled. “A songbird. He’s a dear member of our group.”

There was likely more to this than Montgomery was saying; he wasn’t the type to decide that a bird was worth Hunter’s time. Montgomery had to be worried about more than a bird. He scanned the tense Warblers; they were wound up, from just the missing bird or something else was still up for debate. Hunter filed the thought away and said, “Sure he didn’t just fly away?”

“Pavarotti is unlikely to do so,” Montgomery said.

“He wouldn’t,” another boy interrupted.

It was the Warbler who had been in the center of the crowd. He met Hunter’s gaze. “Pavarotti wouldn’t fly away,” he said.

“Blaine Anderson,” Montgomery introduced. 

He could see why the other Warblers had clustered themselves around Anderson. He had a type of charisma that Hunter had seen in Montgomery, the type that made people turn and listen. He didn’t have height or the breadth, but he carried himself with the same shoulder-back and spine-straight posture that Montgomery did with ease. But while the other Warblers turned to Montgomery with respect, they eyed Blaine Anderson with thinly veiled suspicion.

“Blaine Anderson,” Hunter echoed. “What were you saying about Pavarotti?”

“He wouldn’t fly away,” Blaine said, again. His voice was very firm, and he met Hunter’s gaze with calm. “We’ve let him out before. He’s domesticated. Likes to fly around and peck at everything, but he views his cage as a place of safety, not a place of imprisonment.”

“He wouldn’t be able to sing duets with Blaine if he left,” another voice drawled. The boy waved a languid hand at Hunter. “Sebastian Smythe,” he added. He had light hair and green eyes, and unlike the other Warblers, was relaxed enough to appear as if he was lounging in his seat beside Blaine Anderson. He had the easy tenor of somebody who was used to getting what he wanted and the confidence of a man who had stood in the spotlight long enough to get accustomed to it.

“Why don’t you tell me more about this missing bird,” Hunter prompted Blaine.

Blaine met his gaze, and then his eyes flicked to Montgomery’s, briefly, and then back to Hunter’s. “Pavarotti’s been missing for few weeks.”

“Do you know the exact date?”

Blaine’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling in thought. Another boy next to him opened his mouth, and then shut it. Hunter filed the details—pale face, light hair, prim posture, and a feathered broach pinned to his blazer is direct defiance of the dress code—and made a note to question him later.

“It was early January,” Blaine said, slowly. “It was at the end of winter break.”

“First day back was January 4th,” Montgomery volunteered. He had pulled out his phone to check his calendar. 

“I came back a day early for optional rehearsal.”

“January 3rd,” the short dark-haired boy flanking Montgomery said.

Blaine nodded. “That should be the date.”

Montgomery caught Hunter’s gaze and explained. “We had an optional meeting with rehearsal the day before classes started. A chance for people who felt like they wanted more practice to rehearse with the piano. Mostly for soloists. David and I led the practice.”

Hunter gestured for him to continue.

“I noticed during rehearsal,” Blaine said. “I think most of us did.” There were a few nods from the audience, likely those who had noticed Pavarotti’s absence. There were more than a few snorts. David nodded. Montgomery was blank-faced and still, as was the other boy flanking him. “Pavarotti joins us in rehearsals, but nobody brought him.”

“Who was supposed to bring him?”

A pause. The faces turned towards Blaine. There were a few fingers pointed, and one badly disguised mutter of “Who do you think,” as a cough.

“Blaine is in charge of Pavarotti’s care,” Montgomery confirmed, at Hunter’s glance.

Blaine said, “I had other people helping me.” There was something steely in his gaze as he said it. “I couldn’t take care of Pavarotti over break; I was out of town. Kurt agreed to assist.” He gestured at the boy who’d opened his mouth earlier, with the brooch. 

“Kurt Hummel,” Montgomery volunteered, when it was clear that Kurt wouldn’t introduce himself. Kurt glared at Hunter.

“He told me that Pavarotti was missing, and we looked around campus, but we couldn’t find him. I thought he’d show up and laid out some birdseed by his cage, but he never showed.”

Kurt Hummel’s mouth pinched, but he didn’t disagree aloud.

Hunter nodded, thinking. “So, you haven’t seen him in two months,” he said, to Blaine. “When did you hand off responsibility to Kurt?”

Blaine blinked. “About three months ago,” he corrected. “Kurt started taking care of Pavarotti a bit before winter break so he could get accustomed while I was around.” There was a pause, and he continued, “He was very responsible about it. He had it under control. Of course, I saw him when Kurt brought him to practice. It was a week before Winter Break.” Blaine’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember the date. “I don’t remember the exact date,” he apologized.

“You didn’t record the date of every one of your charming duets in your diary?” Sebastian drawled.

Blaine narrowed his eyes at Sebastian, his shoulders were slumped. A few of the Warblers eyed Sebastian, but the other ones didn’t take any note of the comment, remaining poised and calm. This was common enough behavior for the two of them, then. Friendly teasing instead of the malicious ribbing some of the others seemed inclined to give Blaine.

However. The boy with the brooch, Kurt, sniffed disdainfully, glaring at Sebastian.

“Maybe Kurt could enlighten us,” Hunter suggested. He had never been one for amiable smiles, but he found that confidence, authority, and taking no shit did just as well when it came to getting information. “As it seems that you were the last to see… Pavarotti.”

Sebastian smirked back at Kurt.

Kurt sniffed, and stood. In addition to the not-regulation brooch of feathers, he also wasn’t wearing the uniform trousers, but trousers similar in shade but with a faint pinstripe pattern woven into the cloth. He was surprised Montgomery hadn’t sent him back to his dorm to change into uniform.

“He was fine,” Kurt said, looking shifty. “Normal. I didn’t think anything of it. I fed him and took care of him regularly.”

“When did you notice he was missing?”

“The same day Blaine did.” Kurt turned towards Blaine. “I thought that Blaine had taken Pavarotti back, but Blaine said that Pavarotti was missing instead.” He turned back to Hunter. “We searched all around campus. Everybody helped except for Sebastian,” he added.

“He’s allergic,” Blaine said.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Also, I was napping,” he said, at Hunter’s glance. “Jetlag. I didn’t realize we were looking for that bird until Blaine burst into my room all disheveled.” He leered.

Blaine sighed, silently. Kurt’s mouth pinched tight in a similar expression of distaste as earlier. A few of the other Warblers, Montgomery included, shook their heads.

Sebastian continued, “So, no. I didn’t search for the bird. That was all Hummel and Blaine, here.” A gesture of the land. “And the others.”

“Who helped in the search?”

There were a handful of Warblers who had returned to campus for the optional rehearsal. Montgomery introduced the ones who had. The short, dark-haired boy flanking him had returned—he was Thad Harwood. He had noticed Pavarotti’s absence, but hadn’t thought much of it, given that Kurt hadn’t been bringing Pavarotti to practices anyways. There was a chubby boy who had wanted more practice named Trent, who missed Pavarotti, and had thrown himself into the search to find Pavarotti. There were two other soloists: Nicolas Duval and Jeffrey Sterling, who came to practice their lead parts, and hadn’t thought much of Pavarotti’s absence until Blaine mentioned it was a problem. The others hadn’t made it to campus.

Hunter turned his attention to Montgomery. “So, you want me to find Pavarotti.”

“If you can,” Montgomery agreed.

Hunter recognized the appeal to his pride. Montgomery knew what he was doing. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Got a place for me and Mr. Puss to stay?”

“I think we can accommodate you,” Montgomery agreed.

* * *

Montgomery picked up Mr. Puss once they reached the room that Hunter would be staying in, scooping him up with familiar ease and stroking the soft white fur. Mr. Puss let him, familiar enough with Montgomery after their years of acquaintance. “Any thoughts, so far?” Montgomery asked.

“You think something else is going on,” Hunter retorted. He took in the room—it looked like dozens of dorm rooms across America. Cheap wooden furniture. An extra-long twin-size mattress. A desk and a chair. A chest of drawers. It would do. “Otherwise you’d just declare the bird missing and move on.”

Montgomery said, “Yes.”

“Your song group not working out?”

“It should have been fine.”

“People are keeping secrets from you.”

“People are allowed secrets.” Montgomery sighed. “Practices have been unproductive lately. There’s been sniping and accusations going around.”

“I noticed people seemed upset at Blaine.”

Montgomery sighed, “It’s not that unfounded.”

“You don’t want it to be him.”

Montgomery sighed. He looked to the side. “Blaine was doing well,” he said. “I’m worried what it’d mean for him if we don’t find Pavarotti.”

“You’ve very invested in this Blaine Anderson.”

“It might be a long story.” He raised an eyebrow in response. “Shall I get an extra chair for you?”

“I’ll stand. You’ve got Mr. Puss.”

Montgomery settled into the chair, still holding Mr. Puss, who let out a satisfied purr. “I’ve mentioned Blaine to you before.”

Hunter cast his mind back. They didn’t talk much anymore, but Hunter made a point to remember anything Montgomery might mention, given how deliberately he spoke. “Not by name,” Hunter concluded. He would have remembered a name. Which meant that Montgomery had mentioned him by characteristic, and that meant—

“Guy who got beaten up?”

Montgomery nodded.

Montgomery _had_ mentioned Blaine before. Not by name—Hunter would have remembered. But Montgomery had mentioned taking a kid under his wing. A guy who had gotten beaten up two years ago, but seemed to be recovering well physically. Mentally was another thing. He was twitchy, hesitant, and too violent all at once. Montgomery, bleeding heart that he was, had dedicated himself to helping the guy. Gave him the right balance of discipline and leeway. Gave him responsibility and freedom. Montgomery had said that the kid was a poor mix of bored and frustrated, since he had to retake his freshman year, and needed something to focus on. 

Hunter had called it a pet project. Montgomery said it was helping a friend in need.

“He carries himself well,” Hunter offered. Blaine hadn’t looked like a guy who had gotten beaten up two years ago—he carried himself with confidence and calm, instead of shrinking into himself or swaggering with defensive posturing. Hunter wouldn’t have guessed Blaine was the bullied boy that Montgomery had mentioned two years ago, off-handedly, with a pointed tone in his voice. Hunter had suspected that Montgomery wanted him to look into it, but he’d been busy looking into a theft, and had put it aside, and kept putting it aside.

“Pavarotti was good for him,” Montgomery replied. “Last year, we assigned Blaine to take care of Pavarotti to make sure he woke up at reasonable times, went to class, and fed himself. It gave him structure.”

Hunter was beginning to piece together the story. “So you think it’s suspicious that he handed off the bird to Kurt so early?”

“Blaine told everybody that it was because he was going out of town,” Montgomery said. “And he did go out of town for Winter Break—his family went to Paris, there are photos on Facebook. But I’m surprised he said he gave Pavarotti to Kurt, who’s never been interested in helping care for Pavarotti.” A pause. “He’s… finicky.”

“I noticed he was wearing non-regulation clothing.”

He inclined his head. “I was surprised when Blaine mentioned that he was going to ask Kurt to care for Pavarotti, and even more so when Blaine said Kurt agreed to take care of him and he’d passed Pavarotti over already. Kurt’s new, and it seemed like a rash decision, but I trusted Blaine. I didn’t bring it up. But now that Pavarotti is missing.” He stroked a hand over Mr. Puss’ fur. “It’s suspicious. I suspect there’s more at play than I realize.”

“I’ll question Blaine.” 

“Be gentle, if you can,” Montgomery requested, standing. “I know it’s not your style, but Blaine’s a good guy, and he’s done well to put himself back together over these past two years.” He passed Mr. Puss over; the cat only was a little disgruntled to leave Montgomery’s hold, and when he realized Hunter had taken him, settled down again.

“What can you tell me about Kurt and Sebastian? They seemed close to Blaine.”

“Sebastian started in the beginning of this year; he shares classes with Blaine and flirts incessantly. Blaine doesn’t reciprocate. Kurt transferred mid-term. Blaine took him under his wing and showed him around. He admires Blaine a lot, looks up to him for all that he’s a year older.”

“How long has he been at Dalton?”

“He transferred in October.”

“So he was only here for about a month before Blaine gave him the bird to take care of.”

Montgomery nodded. “It seemed like a rash decision,” he repeated. “I had my doubts. And it seems that I was proven right.”

Hunter nodded, slowly. “I’ll solve your problem,” he said. “But you’re right that Blaine’s suspicious.”

“I wish he wasn’t,” Montgomery said. “But I can’t let what I want interfere with finding Pavarotti.”

* * *

Blaine agreed to talk; they arranged to meet at the on-campus coffee stand instead of in the Senior Commons. Hunter got there early and took a discrete corner to watch. Blaine came in with his shoulders still set in the posture they’d been earlier today: confidence and only a touch of swagger. He ordered coffee—a medium drip—and then added a dash of cinnamon to it. Not fancy, but spicing up his drink on his own.

Blaine hadn’t noticed him, and took a seat at a table of his own, pulling out a copy of Hamlet. Doing homework while he waited. It was a diligence that explained why Montgomery liked Blaine.

Hunter scooped up his own coffee and headed over. “Blaine Anderson.”

Blaine’s head jerked up, in surprise. “Hunter Clarington,” he said.

Hunter slid into the seat across from him. From this vantage point, he could see that the pages were liberally annotated. No wonder Montgomery liked this guy. He’d always appreciated diligence and hard work.

Blaine closed the book and set it into his messenger bag, sliding it into an assigned spot instead of just shoving it in. “So how can I help?” Blaine asked, once his things were packed away, and there was just their two cardboard cups of coffee on the table. He leaned forward a little, to all appearances genuine in his desire to assist. “You’re here to help find Pavarotti, right?”

“That’s right,” Hunter drawled. “Why don’t we start with your relationship with the bird?”

Blaine nodded. “I’ve been taking care of Pavarotti for the past two years.”

“How did you get saddled with that job?”

Blaine smiled a little. “I didn’t get saddled with it,” he corrected. “I volunteered.”

“Oh?”

“Well, my first year, you could have said I got saddled with it. Wes asked if I was interested, and I agreed. But this year, I volunteered. It’s good to take care of something. It helped me a lot, last year. Got me up early. Gave me something to focus on when I’m getting lost in my head.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Volunteering for things?”

“Getting lost in your head.”

Blaine paused. His gaze went distant, for a second. “Not anymore.”

Hunter filed it away. Blaine’s shoulders were tense, defensive. He’d pry at Montgomery later to get what he needed. Instead, he said, “So you’re in charge of taking care of Pavarotti.”

Blaine nodded.

“What does that entail?”

His shoulders eased a bit when he realized the direction of the conversation. “I feed him. Let him out. Keep him socialized. Make sure he doesn’t get too territorial of any space so he doesn’t start biting people.”

“Sing duets with him?”

Blaine smiled. “I don’t really. Sebastian likes to tease.”

Hunter eyed him. Blaine seemed relaxed, now that they were talking about Pavarotti. His body language was open and easy. He clearly liked taking care of the bird, which was why it was odd.

“So why did you ask Kurt to take care of Pavarotti?”

Blaine paused. He searched for his words carefully. “I thought that Kurt could use the companionship. He had just transferred. It’s hard to make friends, when you’re new. I thought Pavarotti could keep him company.”

“Is that why you passed off your responsibilities so early?”

Blaine’s mouth tensed. “I wanted Pavarotti to be settled before Winter Break.”

“Why?”

“Pavarotti likes consistency.”

“Would three weeks really have been that bad?”

“It was better if there was a transition period.”

“But you were just going to get the bird back after break anyways.”

There was a split second of hesitation, before Blaine nodded. “Kurt agreed to take care of Pavarotti temporarily.”

Hunter narrowed his eyes. “So, you didn’t want to get the bird back?”

Blaine took a breath. “It was always a temporary situation,” he said, firmly.

Interesting. Blaine was hiding something, and Hunter was inclined to poke at the wall until it crumbled. “That’s what the situation was, not what you wanted the situation to be.”

Blaine’s eyes narrowed. “I did what I could to take care of Pavarotti. I brought him to Kurt and helped him set up a cage in his dorm so it was the same as it was in my room before. Consistency. I didn’t just foist my responsibilities off.”

“So you say.”

Blaine opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, a familiar body dropped into the seat beside Blaine, a cardboard cup of coffee set onto the table before them, and a tenor voice drawled, “Cheating on your boyfriend, Killer? And here you had me convinced you loved him.”

Blaine sighed. “Sebastian.”

The Sebastian Smythe from the earlier meeting smirked back. He slung an arm familiarly across Blaine’s shoulder, mouth curved lazily. “You went for coffee and didn’t invite me?” His eyes flicked to Hunter’s, and then back to Blaine.

“The coffee was really secondary,” Blaine replied. But he was smiling, friendly and easy. “Hunter wanted to talk about Pavarotti.”

Sebastian laughed. “Just Pavarotti?” He smirked at Hunter. “Can’t say much for his taste.”

“Just Pavarotti.”

“Did you tell him how much you love that bird?” He winked at Hunter. “Blaine loves that bird. Pretty sure he loves it more than me.”

“That’s not hard,” Blaine muttered.

Hunter raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Oh yeah.” Sebastian grinned, eager to share gossip. “Serenades him every night before he goes to sleep. They have the most charming duets.”

Blaine scrubbed a hand across his face in embarrassment. 

“Meanwhile, I can’t get this guy to sing a duet with me once. Sex on a stick and sings like a dream, and he won’t give me the time of day compared to how much attention he lavishes on that bird.”

“Jealousy is unbecoming,” Blaine replied.

Hunter eyed their body language. Sebastian was flirting with Blaine, just as Montgomery had said. Blaine wasn’t reciprocating, but his body language wasn’t as tense as he would have expected. He was used to this, then. Used to Sebastian draping an arm over his shoulder and drawling his words, needling him without maliciousness. And not entirely unreceptive either, for all his responses.

“What’s this about a boyfriend?” Hunter interrupted their banter.

Sebastian turned to Hunter, surprised. 

Blaine blurted, “It’s a joke.”

He glanced at the two of them. Their shoulders were pressed together in a unified front. 

Blaine said, “Sebastian likes to joke that I’m dating Pavarotti, because I spend so much time taking care of him.”

“And you sing duets together,” Sebastian said. He turned to Hunter, again. “Do you know how many times I’ve petitioned the Council to sing a duet with Blaine? And they still won’t give me one. Meanwhile, Blaine sings duets with Pavarotti every night.”

“Solos are assigned by the Warbler Council,” Blaine said.

Sebastian waved away the protest. “You could bat your eyes at the council and get them to agree to anything.”

Hunter doubted that Montgomery would be swayed by Blaine’s batted eyelashes, but Montgomery _did_ have a soft spot for Blaine, given his warning earlier. “I know Montgomery’s on the Council,” he said, conversationally. “Who else?”

“David,” Blaine said.

“Thad,” Sebastian added.

The two that had flanked Montgomery earlier. Their positions made sense.

“But Blaine really should be on it, given how much sway he has over decisions.” Sebastian smirked at Blaine, who shook his head.

“What does the Warbler Council do?”

“Oh, Blaine could answer that much better than I could,” Sebastian deferred. He was still practically lounging on Blaine’s shoulder.

Blaine sighed. “Every year, we elect three members to represent us when dealing with any official affairs. They’re in charge of liaising with faculty, arranging outreach—”

Sebastian drawled, “Hiring detectives to find a missing mascot.”

Blaine threw Sebastian a _look_. The look he gave Hunter was much more conciliatory. “Yes. They do that too. They’re essentially officer positions for the Warblers.”

Sebastian just lounged in his seat and smirked back.

“They also help decide solos for performances, finalize the set list, take care of arrangements…” Blaine trailed off, a little. “We all have input, but the Council has the final say.”

“And Blaine,” Sebastian added, a glint in his eye. “Don’t listen to anything he says, he might not _officially_ be on the Council, but he basically is.”

Blaine shook his head, again. 

“He’s our shining star, after all.”

Blaine said, “I’m really not.”

Sebastian just smirked back.

He looked between them and said, “I see,” and he thought he was beginning to do so. “Seems like a lot of busywork.”

Blaine shrugged. “We don’t know everything that goes on behind the scenes. Wes always says they do a lot more than just decide solos.”

“Like what?”

He looked uncomfortable. “Wes would say that he makes sure everything runs smoothly.”

Sebastian added, at Hunter’s look, “With this lot? More work than it’s worth.”

“Wes takes care of all of us,” Blaine said, softly. “Not just so the group does well. He makes sure that we’re all doing well in our classes as well. Thad’s always organizing study groups for us underclassmen.”

“Guess I missed all of those,” Sebastian drawled.

“You usually have lacrosse practice.” He shook his head, and then turned to Hunter. “It’s probably why Wes asked you to come find Pavarotti. It’s more than just finding a missing Warbler. With Pavarotti gone, the group is…” he trailed off and shrugged, again. 

So Blaine wasn’t unaware of the thinly veiled suspicion that had been levied at him at the meeting earlier.

“Well, we can’t disappoint Montgomery. So when was the last time _you_ saw Pavarotti, Sebastian.”

Sebastian paused. He picked up the cardboard cup of coffee that had been resting on the table the entire time of the conversation, and finally took a slow long sip. His gaze met Hunter’s, steadily, and he said, in a perfectly even tone of voice, “It must have been months ago.”

“How many months?”

Sebastian didn’t flinch. “Oh, three months ago?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, it was about three months ago.”

The same timeline that Blaine had given. “Where did you see the bird?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Oh, flying around. It was at the Warbler meeting. Blaine sang a duet with him.”

“You didn’t see the bird after Kurt started taking care of it?”

“He wasn’t as inclined to bring the bird to meetings as Blaine was.”

Blaine frowned.

“Interesting,” Hunter said, and smiled.

* * *

Hunter took the time to wander around the campus before finding his next target for interrogation. Dalton Academy was nice, with pale stone floors instead of cheap public school linoleum. He could see why Montgomery liked it.

He took the time to familiarize himself with the halls; most Dalton students lived in the dormitories, though there were a few who commuted. Students were divided by grade, and each grade had a few halls of dormitory rooms to themselves. Each hall had a common area at the end, with a kitchenette attached, but it seemed like the larger socializing spaces were the common areas in the main building proper. The Warblers spent much of their time together in the East Senior Commons, but most of them seemed to also spend time with their hallmates and classmates, given that he saw a study party in one common area where Thad Harwood was studying with several unfamiliar faces, and a video game tournament in another common area, where Nick and Jeff were cheerfully engaged in battle with their also unfamiliar to Hunter dormmates.

Hunter left the sophomore halls to the junior halls. David was talking to another Warbler he recognized as Kevin and an unfamiliar student—not a Warbler. He spotted some other Warblers hanging out with classmates, but not the one he was looking for.

Kurt Hummel was in his room. He peered out suspiciously when Hunter knocked. “What do you want?”

“Just wanted to ask some questions,” Hunter said, peacefully. He glanced through the crack the ajar door offered. Kurt didn’t seem about to move, so Hunter took the initiative. “Are you going to invite me in?”

He stepped out at that, arms crossed. “What do you want?” he said, again.

“To ask some questions,” Hunter said. “Got a place you want to talk?”

“We can talk here.”

“Alright.” The third hall Junior dorms wasn’t Hunter’s first choice for this discussion—he would have preferred chairs—but this wasn’t going to take that long anyways. “Tell me about what you did to take care of Pavarotti?”

Kurt’s shoulders tensed. “I fed him. Gave him water. Cleaned his cage.”

Hunter nodded. “Blaine asked you to take care of Pavarotti. Did he help you out?”

Kurt nodded.

“What sort of help did he give?”

“We talked.” His arms tensed. “We got coffee and talked about what Pavarotti needed.” 

“Just talked?”

Kurt nodded, tightly.

“How often?”

He paused. “A lot. At least once a week.”

“You got coffee and talked about Pavarotti once a week?” That seemed like a lot, for advice on how to care for a bird. “How much advice did you need?”

“We talked about other stuff.” Kurt eyed him suspiciously. 

“What sort of stuff?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Just trying to find the bird,” Hunter said. “That’s what I’m here for. Not here to hit on your boyfriend.”

Kurt flushed, bright red against his pale skin, before he tried to hide it with a scowl. Hunter noted the reaction. That was the reaction of somebody who wanted that statement to be true.

“So,” Hunter drawled.

“We talked about Dalton,” Kurt said. “About musicals. Everything, really. We have a lot in common, and we could talk for _hours_.”

“Sounds nice,” Hunter led.

“It is.” He had dropped his arms from where they were crossed, and now they hung at his side. “Blaine and I get along well.” His mouth was set into a mulish frown, but it was easing. “He’s actually nice and friendly, unlike the other Warblers. He took the time to get to know me instead of burying his face in the ground, and that’s why he knows he can _trust_ me.”

“Would you say that you two are close?”

“Yes.” Kurt’s chin jutted up. “Blaine spends the most time with me. We have a _connection_.”

“That’s why he asked you to care for Pavarotti.”

“Exactly.”

Trust could be a heady thing. Hunter knew that well. Kurt wasn’t likely to break trust, if he held it in such high regard.

But if he didn’t, Hunter thought, then it would be easy.

“Tell me about when he asked you to help.”

Kurt’s mouth quirked. He said, “We were getting coffee; we get coffee a lot. Just the two of us. Blaine bought coffee for me, and he said that he was going out of town for Winter Break, and asked me to take care of the bird when he was out of town. He said that he didn’t think anybody else would do better.” His chest puffed, at the last sentence.

“What did you say?”

“What do you think I said?” He rolled his eyes. “I agreed.”

“Why?” Hunter pointed out, “Taking care of Pavarotti had to be a lot of responsibility.”

“ _Blaine_ asked me to,” Kurt said. 

“It seems like a lot to agree to, given you’ve only known him for a month or so at that point.”

“Three weeks. But we were close already.” His mouth pursed. “Blaine’s a good guy. And he knew that I would do a good job. I actually listened to his advice instead of just deciding what to do. He knew I’d do better than _Sebastian_ or anybody else.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying you broke his trust?”

Kurt’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t break his trust.”

“You lost Pavarotti. That seems pretty cut-and-dry to me.”

“I didn’t break his trust,” Kurt snapped.

“So what, you’re just hiding the bird away until he tells you to show it again?”

Kurt glared.

Hunter leaned forward. The hallway was still empty, and he dropped his voice low. “Or perhaps you’re covering for him?”

Kurt’s eyes went wide.

“What’s the answer, Kurt?” He leaned back, slid his hands into his pockets, and waited.

The hallway was empty, and Kurt took a deep breath and said, “I didn’t break Blaine’s trust,” with a firm glint in his eye. “I never got the bird to begin with.”

* * *

Interviews were fine for a first step, but people lied. That was clearer than ever, as he reviewed what everybody had said. So, there was nothing to it but to do groundwork. Hunter had a system. He fetched Mr. Puss from his room and let Mr. Puss wander, following in the cat’s footsteps.

Some people swore by hunting hounds to sniff out clues. Hunter had always found himself enough of a hunter, and Mr. Puss was a perfectly good clue finder himself. Especially given that the prey was a bird.

Montgomery would never forgive him if he found Pavarotti only for Mr. Puss to eat him, so he kept a close eye on Mr. Puss instead of letting the feline wander freely. Mr. Puss was used to treating everywhere they visited as his own home, and he settled into Dalton just as freely, padding down the hallways and poking his nose into classrooms.

Hunter followed, turning over the clues as he did so.

Mr. Puss went to the Senior Commons first, which Hunter was hoping he’d do. Pavarotti had spent plenty of time here, singing duets with Blaine, according to the Warblers. It was late enough in the evening that the Warblers themselves were gone, and the room was empty. Mr. Puss wandered around the room while Hunter scanned it. It was meticulously cleaned; the Dalton Academy custodial staff were very good. Any traces of Pavarotti were no doubt gone after at least a month away. 

Except Mr. Puss was batting at a feather that he’d found underneath a table at the side of the room. Hunter teased it out of Mr. Puss’s grasp with a handkerchief, eyeing it thoughtfully. Given the early February weather, it could have been from a winter coat, but it wasn’t the typical pale white down feather, but instead had a yellow tint.

Hunter tried to recall who had been by the table. Montgomery had been standing by it, he recalled.

He slid his phone out of his pocket and sent a text to Montgomery: “Got a picture of your bird?”

Montgomery replied, “Already emailed to you after I left your room.”

Montgomery was always on top of things. Hunter found the message and opened up the photo to compare the feather to the picture—it could belong to the bird. The color was close enough. He folded it into his handkerchief and tucked it away.

Mr. Puss, his toy taken from him, wandered around the room in search for something else to entertain himself with. Hunter bent to peer under the furniture, bracing himself on a hand to do so. Nothing else, not even a dust bunny; apparently it was just the one feather underneath a table. Hunter sighed, pushing himself off the polished floor to track Mr. Puss.

Mr. Puss had settled before the fireplace and was lounging, pleased. Hunter quirked a brow before examining the rest of the room, checking underneath chairs to be thorough. He passed by the bookshelves; there was an old set of encyclopedias, and many nice leather-bound copies of the classics, but there were also sheaves of sheet music with old notes, notebooks full of lecture notes and homework problems, and other sundry paperwork that would be helpful for a group of musical students.

Hunter flipped through a notebook with notes in what appeared to be Montgomery’s neat hand when he heard the voices passing by.

“—seems like a waste of time when we can just get to the main event,” the voice drawled, and Hunter recognized it as Sebastian’s.

“Foreplay is not a waste of time.” The tone was fondly exasperated. Hunter blinked, because that was Blaine’s voice replying.

“It is when curfew’s in an hour,” Sebastian replied. “All of your wiles couldn’t get us in the same room.”

“I recall that you were the one who didn’t want us to share a room. You’re allergic to birds.”

“Yeah, well, you like that bird. I didn’t want to take you from your first love.”

Blaine sighed, long and slow, audible even through the closed door. “I hope we find him. Wes seems to believe this Hunter guy’ll do it”

“Well if _Wes_ says so,” Sebastian drawled, their voices fading.

Hunter cracked the door open and peered int heir direction. Sebastian had an arm slung over Blaine’s shoulders, Blaine leaning into him. Their body language was different from earlier today; close and intimate. Blaine leaned in instead of holding himself aloof. As they turned the corner, he saw Blaine rise up on his toes to press a peck to Sebastian’s cheek, laughing.

Interesting. That put comments about a boyfriend into a new light. He tapped the pocket where the feather was resting, scooped up Mr. Puss, and went back to his room to think about what he had just seen.

* * *

Hunter stopped by the sophomore dorms the next morning—it was a Saturday and early enough that anybody sleeping in was probably still asleep. Still, there were two familiar faces in the common area. There was a blond he recognized as Jeffrey Sterling aggressively playing Mario Kart with Nicolas Duval, before he grimaced and tossed his controller onto the chair when he lost. 

Hunter nodded in greeting. “Jeffrey Sterling and Nicolas Duval, correct?”

“Just Jeff and Nick,” Jeff replied, with a grimace. He said, to Nick, “I’m done for now.” Nick shrugged and switched to a Zelda game and started playing it solo. Jeff leaned back and asked, “How’s the hunt for Pavarotti?”

“It’s going.” Hunter glanced around—there was a television with more than one game console tucked underneath, a few comfortable couches, and a few tables for people to work at, one with a large cage with a few perches clamped to the wire walls. “That Pavarotti’s cage?”

Jeff looked over. “One of them,” he said. “Blaine gave Pavarotti free-reign of this area,” he explained. “This wasn’t his sleeping cage, but it made more sense to keep this cage out here so Pavarotti could have a place to eat and whatnot when Blaine was with us.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t keep it in the Senior Commons.”

Nick laughed. “And deprive Pavarotti of his company?”

“Oh,” Jeff said. “We spend a lot of time practicing in the Senior Commons, but it’s still the _Senior_ Commons, not the Warbler’s Clubhouse.” He shrugged. “The faculty said we couldn’t keep Pavarotti’s stuff there. But they couldn’t stop Blaine from setting this up for Pavarotti here. We all voted and agreed on it.” He made a gesture towards the halls of dorm rooms. 

“Who else lives in this hall?”

“Well, me and Nick.” He pointed to what was most likely their room in the hall. “Blaine,” the door he pointed at had a whiteboard on it with a bunch of messages. “Thad. Trent. Justin, Andrew, and Matt.” The last three names were unfamiliar. 

“Not all Warblers,” Hunter noted.

“We have other friends,” Jeff said, wryly.

“I notice that Sebastian isn’t in your dorm.”

“You’d think he was, with how often he comes over. It’s probably because he and Thad are insufferable together.”

Nick added, “And he’ll never pass over a chance to flirt with Blaine.”

Jeff said, “We keep allergy medicine just for when he comes over.” He added, “He’s in a dorm with a bunch of the Lacrosse team. Pretty sure he picked them over us because he knew he’d die if he actually had to live with Pavarotti around all the time.”

There was a thought in the back of Hunter’s brain. He tucked it away, temporarily, checking out the cage instead. It was a nice set-up—big cage, plenty of space for a bird to amuse himself with inside. It obviously hadn’t been moved despite Pavarotti having been handed over to Kurt three months ago, the wood around the cage had been discolored from the sunlight, but there was a clear imprint where the cage rested when Hunter checked. The cage itself was dust-free, and the inside had was sparce and tidy. It hadn’t fallen to neglect, or turned into a storage space for miscellany the way it might have. Hunter said, “Kurt didn’t take this?”

Jeff shook his head. “I heard his dorm didn’t want Pavarotti in the common areas.”

“I’m surprised he gave Pavarotti to Kurt then, instead of one of you.”

“So are we,” Nick offered, looking away from the game briefly before yelping as he took a hit. “Who knows what the hell Blaine was thinking. I even offered to stay on-campus over the break. I heard Kurt went back to his family in Lima.”

Jeff said, with a long-suffering expression, “Nick is feuding with his brother.”

“We aren’t feuding.”

“You weren’t _actually_ going stay on-campus.”

“I would if Blaine had asked me to.”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“Alright, I wouldn’t. But _Trent_ would have.”

“Trent’s family lives in California. We all knew he was flying out for Christmas.”

“Yeah, but if Blaine asked? He totally would have.”

“Trent bought his tickets the day classes started. He would _not_ have stayed.”

Nick shrugged, amiably, turning back to his game. “I bet he would have.”

“You’d lose,” Jeff retorted. He turned back to Hunter. “Are you here for Blaine?”

“Just checking things out,” Hunter replied. He slid his hands into his pockets. “I heard Pavarotti’s got a cage he’s supposed to sleep in. Any idea where that is?”

“Kurt probably has it?” Jeff shrugged. “If he was taking care of Pavarotti, he probably had it in his room. Or maybe he gave it back to Blaine?”

“I’ll ask Blaine,” Hunter said. “He awake?”

Jeff shrugged, again. “Probably. He’s usually up early, but I haven’t seen him out.” He pointed out Blaine’s door again, mouth twisted into a grimace. “You can knock, and see if he opens the door for you.”

“I’ll do that.” Hunter ambled over to Blaine’s dorm room door. The whiteboard was obviously well-used, half of the messages well-wishes and hopes that Blaine would find Pavarotti soon, a note that Wes had been looking for Blaine, a half-erased message about Warbler practice for soloists coming up, a comment that somebody named Jon had left notes with Trent. There were also imprints of messages still lingering behind. There was a message that hadn’t quite been erased, something “on a stick.” 

Hunter knocked. There was no reply. He knocked again.

“Nothing?” Jeff called. “Probably still asleep then.” He made a face. “Weird.” 

“Weird,” Hunter echoed. “I’ll check back later.”

He tried to place Jeff’s tone. There was something familiar in it: dismissive, frustrated. Montgomery had been right, to worry that his Warblers weren’t handling the missing bird well. He tucked the tone away in the back of his head to ponder later.

“You can leave a note on his whiteboard,” Jeff offered, voice more conciliatory.

“No,” Hunter said. “I’ll just come back later.” He nodded to Nick and Jeff. “Where did you say Sebastian’s dorm room was?”

* * *

Blaine was in Sebastian’s room.

He was sitting on Sebastian’s bed, in sweatpants and a T-shirt too wide for his torso, tapping at his laptop when Sebastian opened the door to his knock. Hunter had enough time to catch a glimpse of Blaine Anderson in relaxed study before Sebastian—also in sweatpants and a T-shirt—stepped outside of his room and closed the door behind him. “How can I help you?” Sebastian asked, and he was charming enough despite his reticence to let Hunter see into his room.

“Just wanted to know what you thought of Pavarotti.” 

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Making the rounds?” He leaned against his door, a bulwark against entry. “He was fine.”

“Fine?” Hunter met Sebastian’s nonchalant tone with a raised eyebrow. “For somebody allergic enough to choose a different dorm to avoid him, that seems like high praise.”

Sebastian laughed. “I’m also on the lacrosse team.” He gestured to the rooms around him, which Hunter assumed were occupied by sophomore members of the lacrosse team. “Avoid allergies _and_ keep the Warblers from getting their beauty sleep disturbed when I clank out at 5AM for practice? Seems like an obvious choice to me.”

“So, you’re living with the lacrosse team,” Hunter confirmed.

“That’s right.” Sebastian jerked a thumb at the door next to his. “And let me tell you, these boys snore worse than the Warblers. I can hear Chris through the walls.”

Hunter ignored the comment. “Have you ever lived with Pavarotti?”

Sebastian snorted. “I took care of that damn bird for _one_ afternoon. It didn’t take long to realize that it was better for all of the Warblers if I _didn’t_ take care of him.” He gestured to his throat. “Can’t sing a note if I spend too much time with the little bugger.”

“You don’t seem too fond of the bird.”

“Well, I’m not fond of things that cause my airways to clog up.” He shrugged. “Is that it?”

“No.” Hunter raised a brow. “I’m looking for Blaine.”

Sebastian’s expression was set in practiced nonchalance. “Have you tried his dorm?”

“Yes.” He crossed his arms, waiting.

He looked at his closed door, and, with a sigh, said, “What are the odds you _didn’t_ just see him in my room?”

“Pretty bad for you.”

Sebastian sighed. He opened the door. “Come in, then.”

There was a pile of lacrosse equipment by the door, belying Sebastian’s claim he was on the lacrosse team. Otherwise, his room was remarkably neat, with books tucked away on the shelf, laundry in a hamper tucked under the bed as opposed to lying strewn around the floor. The neatness was explained by his guest. Blaine was still on Sebastian’s bed, still typing away. Hunter could see there was a paperback open next to him as well, another laptop—probably Sebastian’s—lying nearby. He looked up when Sebastian came in, smiling, and the smile faded when he saw Hunter. “Oh. Hi,” he said.

“Hello, Blaine Anderson,” Hunter replied.

Blaine’s expression was a mingled expression of guilt and embarrassment. He blinked down at his outfit—not the neatly put-together Dalton uniform at all—and said, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“None of us were,” Sebastian muttered.

“I was,” Hunter replied, on instinct.

The two of them looked at him, startled.

Hunter smiled. “Let’s talk about why you handed Pavarotti over to Kurt, and how we can get your bird back so Montgomery will let me go home.”

* * *

“He did it for me,” Sebastian said. 

Sebastian, to hear them talk about it, was already hesitant to spend time in Blaine’s dorm. With his allergies and Pavarotti having free reign, it was a bad mix.

“If I was going to spend time with the others, we’d have to do it somewhere else, like the library. I think Thad felt bad about it, since he scheduled all of these study sessions in the library so we’d spend time together.” Sebastian shrugged. 

Blaine said, “I wanted Sebastian to feel comfortable in my dorm.”

“I could have just taken a Benadryl or something,” Sebastian said. “You didn’t have to give Pavarotti away. I know you love that bird.”

Blaine shook his head. “I love _you_ ,” he protested.

Hunter interrupted before it could get too sappy. “Okay. And you gave Kurt the bird, why?”

Blaine hesitated for a second, before he said, “I meant it, what I said before. Kurt transferred in the middle of the term because his old school wasn’t good for him, and I thought that taking care of Pavarotti would help him.” He hesitated. “It helped me, when I came to Dalton.”

Sebastian said, “He gave up Pavarotti because of me. He gave it to Kurt because he’s a bleeding heart who believes that Pavarotti is the way to a successful life.”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “Kurt’s going through a hard time.”

“Yeah, trying to get into your pants.”

“He’s just lonely.”

Sebastian shook his head, but he didn’t argue.

“You didn’t tell anybody,” Hunter noted. “About your relationship.”

Blaine and Sebastian both looked uncomfortable. Blaine said, finally, “For a while it was just casual dates, and I wasn’t sure it would work out. We didn’t want it to be awkward, if it didn’t work out, so we didn’t tell anybody.”

“But you’re serious now.”

Blaine nodded. “I know we should tell the others, but I don’t—I’m not sure why, I just…”

Sebastian interrupted, “The Warblers are a pain. They’d be annoying about it.”

But Blaine said, “I wasn’t ready to talk about it.”

Hunter eyed the two of them. “You didn’t tell anybody at all? Not your dorm mates? Friends?”

Blaine shook his head. Sebastian looked vaguely uncomfortable. Sebastian admitted, “Thad knows.”

Blaine blinked. “What?”

“Thad and I were roommates last year!” Sebastian protested. “He saw me with a cup of coffee from that place off-campus we went to and asked if I was cheating on you, so I told him so he wouldn’t beat me up for breaking your heart for going on a date _with you_.”

Blaine said, softly, “Oh.”

“He won’t tell,” Sebastian added. “I told him we were taking it slow.” He rolled his eyes. “He was all ‘You? Sebastian? Taking it slow? Keeping it on the down-low? You really are dating Blaine.’”

Blaine laughed at that. “You and Thad.” He shook his head. 

“He’s a good guy,” Sebastian said. 

“He is.” Blaine leaned into Sebastian. 

Hunter looked at them. Seeing them like this put their previous interactions in a new light. “I won’t be able to hide this, when I tell the Warblers where Pavarotti is.”

“I know,” Blaine said. He took a deep breath. “It’s fine.”

Sebastian pressed a hand to Blaine’s thigh. “You don’t have to tell anybody if you don’t want to.”

“No,” Blaine said. “I don’t want to hide.” He touched the back of Sebastian’s hand, a soft touch. “I shouldn’t have hid this in the first place.”

* * *

Montgomery said, “They’re _dating_?”

Hunter raised a brow back.

“Blaine didn’t tell me,” he said, defensively. He paced back and forth. “That… explains a lot.”

“Like why he’d ask somebody to take care of his bird, because his boyfriend’s allergic? Yeah.” Hunter watched as Mr. Puss twined around an ankle, and Montgomery paused in his pacing to gently untangle the cat to keep from accidentally stepping on a stray paw or a tail. “I’m surprised you didn’t realize.”

“I try not to get involved in Blaine’s personal affairs,” Montgomery said. “Dating.” He sounded incredulous. “It’s so soon.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow back. “He’s only two years younger than you.”

“One,” Montgomery said.

Right. Blaine was Montgomery’s pet project, the one who had repeated his freshman year after… that incident that Montgomery had wanted him to look into, but hadn’t wanted to ask about. That put Montgomery’s comment about _soon_ into a new light. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Maybe.” He didn’t look convinced. “Why didn’t he _say_ anything?”

“New relationship? Keeping it under wraps?” Didn’t want to endure the heckling that was sure to come of getting a boyfriend in the tight-knit crowd that’s the Warblers?

Montgomery shook his head. “He made up a story about going out of town instead of just saying that he wanted Sebastian to be comfortable.” He gave Hunter a look. “That’s…”

“It’s a new relationship,” Hunter said, as neutrally as he could. He could interpret Montgomery’s expression, the concern in it. He recognized the concern from two years ago, and the same old defensive frustration surfaced again. But he also had come from talking to Blaine and Sebastian, and he tapped down on the frustration. Montgomery’s protégé had been fine. Would be fine. “And he _did_ go out of town, he has the Facebook pictures to confirm it.” But Montgomery knew Blaine better than he did. “He also tried to find the bird when he got back from Winter Break.”

“Right.” Montgomery still looked a little uncertain. He took a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll reserve my concerns for later, after this whole thing is settled. So, any idea where Pavarotti is?”

“No. But there’s a few clues.” Hunter ticked the points off of his fingers. “Kurt’s adamant that he never took care of the bird. Blaine says he brought the bird and set everything up for Kurt. So, your bird went missing sometime around when Blaine handed it off to Kurt.”

“That’s three months ago.” Montgomery’s voice was neutral, but his mouth was pressed flat in disappointment.

“Your other sophomore Warblers still keep a cage for Pavarotti in their common area.” Hunter ticked the point off another finger. Mr. Puss meowed. “Kurt never took that cage. It hasn’t been moved. And it’s dust-free.”

Montgomery frowned.

Hunter thought about the feather in his pocket, wondering if he should ask Montgomery about it. Montgomery had stood very close to the table he’d found the feather under, after all.

There was a furrow in Montgomery’s brow, as he thought about the two points that Hunter had brought up. He looked tired. Hearing that Blaine and Sebastian were dating had thrown him for a loop.

“Weird to keep a cage in such good condition when the bird might be missing for good,” Hunter finally said.

Montgomery said, “You have some idea what’s going on.”

“I have some idea,” Hunter confirmed, thinking back to the conversation he had with Kurt. “But you can rest assured that Blaine’s decision to move Pavarotti out of his room was so he could get blowjobs without his boyfriend choking to death, not some nefarious plot to get rid of his favorite bird.”

Montgomery’s face made a tortured expression. “Please don’t say that in front of me ever again.”

“Don’t like the thought of your protégé having sex?”

“He’s not my protégé.”

“Agree to disagree.” Hunter clapped Montgomery on the shoulder and then scooped up Mr. Puss. “Get some rest. It’s time for me to shake down the last few suspects.”

“They’re students,” Montgomery tried.

“Exactly.” He grinned back. “Suspects.”

* * *

Hunter set Mr. Puss down in the junior dorms and said, “Alright, Mr. Puss.” Mr. Puss wasn’t a dog, but he held up the feather he’d found and let Mr. Puss bat at it a few times. “Think we can find some more clues?”

Mr. Puss meowed agreeably back.

“Let’s see if we can find where this other cage of Pavarotti’s is.”

What was it that Blaine had said? Make sure Pavarotti didn’t spend all of his time in one cage, so he didn’t get territorial? If Pavarotti had been spending the past three months in one cage, then he was sure to be territorial of it.

The cage in the sophomore dorm was clean and dust-free. As if it had been recently cleaned.

Hunter scanned the doors. Kurt’s was there, but Mr. Puss bypassed it as he meandered. Hunter slid his hands into his pockets and ambled along. Like Blaine’s room, most of these doors had whiteboards hanging from them, with casual notes and crude jokes scrawled on them. He paused at a door with a bass clef drawn on the whiteboard, and a note in Montgomery’s handwriting to a David.

Jackpot.

Hunter rapped on the door, keeping a casual eye on Mr. Puss. David from the Warblers opened it. Unlike Kurt or Sebastian, he opened the door fully, giving Hunter a clear view of the inside of his room. There were papers everywhere, on all of the surfaces, on the bed, on the floor. David had obviously been in the middle of something when Hunter showed up. “Clarington,” he said. “What’s up?”

Hunter jerked his head towards Kurt’s door. “You’re in the same hall as Kurt?”

David nodded.

“How was the bird, that month Kurt was taking care of it? A bother?”

David shrugged. “I didn’t notice it,” he said. “He didn’t have it in the common areas. Probably kept it in his room? I let him have his privacy. He seemed to prefer it.”

“The bird didn’t make any noise?”

A furrow creased David’s brow. “No,” he said slowly.

Hunter nodded. “Thanks.” He glanced at the papers, and asked, “What’s up with that?”

“Oh.” David looked sheepish. “Physics project. And Warbler work.”

“At the same time?”

“Don’t tell Wes I’m multi-tasking, he’ll give me another lecture on dedication and focus.”

That sounded like Montgomery. Hunter had been on the receiving end of those lectures, before. “What’s the Warbler work?”

“Doing some arrangements for a performance at the nearby retirement home.” He nodded at some of the papers. 

“The others aren’t helping you?” 

David laughed. “Wes spends half of his free time doing Warbler work. And Thad’s got some family stuff going on. He’s off-campus almost every weekend these days.”

“His family’s nearby?”

“Like, twenty minutes away.” David shrugged. “I’m surprised he even lives on-campus, he’s so close that he could easily commute.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow, thinking of the short dark-haired boy who’d flanked Montgomery during that first meeting. He had been one of the few who noticed that Pavarotti was missing, wasn’t he? He hadn’t thought much of Pavarotti’s absence during the rehearsal though, since Kurt hadn’t been bringing Pavarotti around anyways. He’d assumed that Kurt still had custody.

“Is it strange that he lives on campus? I assumed most Dalton students lived on campus.”

“Last year, I wouldn’t have thought it weird. But he’s been out most days for the past few months. At this rate, he practically lives off-campus anyways.”

“I suppose he’s off-campus right now.”

“Probably.” David gave him a wry shrug. “You want me to text him and check?”

Hunter glanced over at Mr. Puss, who had settled at the entryway and was washing himself with a disinterested air. “No,” Hunter said. “I’ll ask Montgomery if I need to.”

“Sure.” David tracked his gaze. “Is that your cat?”

Hunter nodded. “Mr. Puss.”

David smiled, “He’s a beauty.”

“You a cat person?”

“More than I’m a bird person.” He shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. We’re Warblers, it makes sense our mascot’s a songbird. But I prefer cats over birds.”

“Good taste.”

David grinned. “Don’t tell Wes.”

“Montgomery likes Mr. Puss.”

“I can see why. He really is a beauty.” He sighed. “Well, this project isn’t going to finish itself.”

Hunter let David go, heading back to Mr. Puss, who gave him a _look_ when Hunter bent down to scoop him into his arms. “Nothing here, huh.” He gave Mr. Puss a brief scritch before heading back towards the sophomore dorms. “Nothing here… on campus.”

* * *

Jeff and Nick had left the common area, and Trent was there instead, watching a show on the TV while working on what looked like physics homework. Chubby and cheerful, he was happy to take a break to pet Mr. Puss and chat.

“Thad left right after the Warbler meeting,” Trent confirmed. Mr. Puss twisted under Trent’s hand, clearly pleased. Trent had a good touch with animals. No wonder he liked Pavarotti.

“Didn’t stay around to hang out?”

Trent shook his head. “He never does, anymore.”

“When did he start leaving campus?” Hunter kept his tone as friendly as possible.

“Oh, November?”

“Three months ago?”

“Sounds about right.” Trent nodded, amiably. “I remember it was a week after Halloween. He brought leftover Halloween candy he’d taken from his younger brother.” He pet Mr. Puss a little more. “You can’t be just here to check on Thad.”

Hunter said, “I thought I’d take a look at this set-up that you guys have for Pavarotti.”

“Oh! Go ahead.” Trent nodded. “You think there are clues there?”

“Maybe.”

The cage was pristine, as it had been when Hunter had checked it earlier today. The layer of bedding at the bottom was fresh, as if it had been recently laid down. It had been recently cleaned, then. Hunter rustled it a little—not even a stray feather.

“Do you know who cleaned this recently?”

Trent frowned back. “No? I can’t think of who would, since Pavarotti is missing.”

He checked the latches, which were fully intact and closed. There wasn’t any food laid out, everything neat and pristine just like Pavarotti had been gone for three months. But it was too clean. And, the wire was so pristine that he could see marks on the wire where perches used to be that weren’t there anymore. There was a bit of wire on the top of the cage that had been worn away, as if there had been a toy tied there that had been removed. He’d noticed the cage seemed empty before, but it was even more clear that it had been stripped of toys that Pavarotti would have played with. “Who usually cleans it?”

“We take turns.” Trent shrugged. “But I don’t think anybody’s cleaned it since Blaine asked Kurt to take care of Pavarotti.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me.” Trent ticked the names off of his fingers. “Blaine, of course. Thad. Nick and Jeff. Justin and Matt sometimes a bit,” two of the non-Warbler boys who lived in this dorm, “and sometimes Anthony. But it’s mostly us Warblers.”

“How do you decide who’s going to clean it?”

“Thad makes chore charts for the hall.” He laughed. “You’d think he’d have enough work as a Council member, but he’s a _compulsive_ chart maker.”

“Oh?” Hunter hefted the cage a little—not too heavy, but bulky enough that he wouldn’t want to be carrying it around.

Trent said, cheerfully, “He even color-codes them. Wes was so happy when he was elected into the Council. He says that Thad makes his life easier, taking care of things before Wes even realizes that it’s a problem.”

“They’re close, then?”

“I think all of the Council are close. They have to spend a lot of time together.” Mr. Puss wiggled away from Trent’s hand, and Trent sat back. “Running the Warblers is a lot of work.”

“I bet. Is it normal for a Sophomore to be on the Council?”

There was a pause. “I really wouldn’t know,” Trent finally said. “You’d have to ask Wes, he probably knows Warbler history better than me.”

“It seems like a lot of responsibility for a sophomore,” he needled.

Trent said, stalwartly, “Thad does a good job. He takes his responsibilities seriously.” He paused, and he said, “Thad’s a good guy. He might not be the friendliest, but he’ll always do the right thing. He’s good, loyal, dedicated.” There was another second. “You’re asking a lot of questions about Thad.”

Hunter shrugged. “I talked to most of the people who were here during that optional rehearsal, but Thad’s been out. Can’t ask him my questions in person.”

He still looked a little suspicious. “Has Kurt been spreading rumors?”

Hunter echoed, “Rumors?”

“Kurt had some ideas about how we should run the club when he joined,” Trent said. “Thad was pretty vocal about putting him in his place. If you’ve been asking around, Kurt might have said something about Thad. He’s new though; he doesn’t know everything that Thad does for us.”

Kurt had been pretty adamant that Blaine thought he was better than the other Warblers when it came to being trusted. He had nothing but praise for Blaine, and nothing but scorn for the other Warblers. It was painting an interesting picture. Hunter looked at the cage, again; the feather he’d found in the senior commons was still in his pocket, but there wasn’t a single sign that Pavarotti had inhabited this cage recently. He played the first meeting in the senior commons again. “I’ll keep it mind. Thanks,” he said. “Mr. Puss and I will get out of your hair.”

“Bring him around again,” Trent offered. Solid stalwart Trent, dedicated to his friends. Hunter was starting to suspect that most of the Warblers were cut from the same cloth. Montgomery. Montgomery’s protégé Blaine. Even Sebastian. It was an unnerving thought, that in the two years they’d stopped talking, Montgomery had gathered a group of people who were as keen-eyed and as dedicated as he was. 

Hunter looked down at Mr. Puss. In the two years they’d stopped talking, Hunter had kept company with Mr. Puss. His cat was good, observant, keen and affectionate. He wouldn’t be close to solving this case without Mr. Puss. But he wasn’t Montgomery, that was for sure.

“He’s a beauty,” Trent said, again.

“He is,” Hunter agreed.

* * *

“Good news,” Hunter said, “your bird isn’t missing.”

Montgomery said, “Where is he, then?”

“I don’t know.”

Montgomery said, “I don’t know how to explain this to you…”

He waved a hand in the air. “I don’t know where the bird is, but I know who has him.”

Montgomery blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Who?” He started to stand from where he’d been bent over a stack of homework. “We’ll go talk to him and get Pavarotti back—”

“The issue is _why_ he took Pavarotti,” Hunter said.

Montgomery’s eyes narrowed.

“But I think I know,” he said. “Want to round up your Warblers for a discussion?”

Montgomery said, “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not,” Hunter said. He patted Montgomery on the shoulder. “But you’ll be glad for it anyways.”

* * *

“This story starts more than three months ago,” Hunter began.

It began two years ago, when Blaine Anderson began his second freshman year at Dalton, and needed something to care for. Montgomery had suggested that Pavarotti go from the group’s responsibility to Blaine’s, though he hadn’t quite phrased it as such. Blaine had taken to it like a duck to water. He wasn’t useless, if he could care for this small helpless creature. He couldn’t lash out, if he wanted to keep this creature safe. He had to learn to be kind, when he was still wary of sharing kindness. He made friends and learned to trust that people would care for him.

The details, Hunter said, were in the past. But the story would grow more complicated. In August, Blaine and Sebastian would start dating, tentative hangouts behind closed doors. In October, Kurt would transfer to Dalton, after being bullied at his previous school. In November, Blaine and Sebastian would go steady.

And Blaine, worried about Sebastian’s allergies, would try to find a new home for Pavarotti.

“This is where it gets complicated,” Hunter said. He turned to Blaine, whose chin was firmly tilted up. The Warblers had taken the revelation that Blaine and Sebastian were dating—had been dating, for months now—with the serious aplomb that showed Montgomery’s influence. Blaine had not relaxed from his steel-rod-straight posture. “Blaine knew how good Pavarotti had been for him. He knew how much it had helped, to care for something, to trust. He would never have trusted Sebastian if it weren’t for Pavarotti, and he wanted that to continue.”

Kurt’s face was pale—had been pale since Hunter had broken the truth that Blaine and Sebastian were dating. He was still pale when Hunter turned to him.

“He gave Pavarotti to Kurt, in hopes that Pavarotti would help Kurt the way Pavarotti had helped him. But Pavarotti never made it to Kurt.”

He met Thad’s gaze. He had never talked to Thad, this entire weekend. But he could see Montgomery’s influence in him. The same steady gaze. The same responsibility set into his shoulders. All of the Warblers had shades of Montgomery’s influence in them. 

“Pavarotti wasn’t just Blaine’s bird. He was a Warbler. And Council members are responsible for Warblers.” He tilted his head towards Thad. “So Thad took Pavarotti instead.”

Blaine’s head whirled towards Thad.

Thad said, “I’m surprised nobody noticed sooner.”

The feather beneath the table was still in Hunter’s pocket. He took it out now, laid it before them. It must have gotten caught on Thad’s uniform, slipped off when he was brushing the wrinkles out of his trousers, floated beneath the table. Perhaps there had been a plethora of feathers like this trailing in Thad’s wake, over the past three months, all but invisible on the pale Dalton floor.

“Blaine didn’t tell anybody that he and Sebastian had started dating, but Sebastian was not as quiet. He told one person, and that person was Thad. And Thad was a Council member.” A Council member with Montgomery’s meticulousness. “Thad was aware of Sebastian’s allergies, and how that kept him from visiting Blaine’s dorm often. So he took Pavarotti home, twenty minutes away, where Pavarotti would be safe and well-cared for, and Sebastian would be able to spend time with Blaine in peace.”

Blaine said, “But why?”

“He didn’t leave Pavarotti in Kurt’s care, because he wanted you to be able to spend time with Sebastian instead of Kurt.”

Blaine’s eyes widened.

Thad said, to Hunter, “I should have known you’d be good at this, if Wes called you.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow.

“Blaine, you _love_ that bird,” Thad said, turning back to Blaine. “It wouldn’t have been hard for Kurt to come up with excuses to get you in his dorm if he actually had him there.”

“So instead,” Hunter said, “You took the bird.”

Thad said, to Montgomery, “Pavarotti is fine. I was going to bring him back after break and talk about getting David to take care of him or something, so he’d still be able to spend time with us and Blaine and Sebastian would be able to hang out with Sebastian dying of anaphylactic shock.” He took a breath, “But.”

“But Blaine was still worried about coming out.” He still remembered what it was like, being beaten for being gay at his previous school. “He knew that Dalton was a safe place, but some hurts take longer to let go.”

Kurt’s face was still very pale.

“And Kurt had taken Blaine’s suggestion he care for Pavarotti as a sign. He already viewed Blaine’s mentorship as a sign of affection. This was confirmation.”

Blaine shook his head, mutely. “I—”

Thad took up the thread. “So I kept Pavarotti away.” He said, to Montgomery. “I thought that Kurt would just admit that I had taken Pavarotti, and he hadn’t cared for Pavarotti at all, but then that would mean telling Blaine that he’d been lying for the past two months about taking care of Pavarotti.”

“We talked.” Blaine sounded bewildered. “I gave you advice. We met for coffee to talk about how to take care of Pavarotti.”

Hunter waited for Kurt to admit it had been a farce to get Blaine’s attention. Kurt, chin firmly tilted up, did not say anything.

Sebastian, instead, spoke. “Wow. Taking advantage of Blaine’s good nature to trick him into dates.” His voice was light, “I knew that bird would be the only thing to get you to cheat on me.”

“Sebastian,” Blaine protested.

“Oh, I know you weren’t cheating on me.” He turned to Kurt. “But he would have been fine with it, if it meant you were spending time with him and not me.”

That got Kurt to talk. “Blaine _liked_ spending time with me!” He said, to Blaine, “We had so much in common.”

Blaine sounded lost. “I thought you needed help.” 

Thad, to Montgomery, said, “I was worried that if I brought Pavarotti back, he would go into Kurt’s care and Kurt would have even more reason to take up Blaine’s attention, or he’d come back to our dorm and Sebastian wouldn’t be able to visit as freely. And I couldn’t do that to Sebastian or Blaine.”

Kurt’s face had settled into mulish fury. Sebastian was smiling—not smirking, but actually smiling—at Thad, one hand pressed against Blaine’s leg. Blaine was looking at Thad as if he’d never seen him before.

“So, I kept Pavarotti.” He said, “I should have told you, at least.”

Montgomery said, slowly, “You should have.”

Thad said, “You’re always so busy. I thought I could handle it.” He nodded to Hunter. “I didn’t know you’d call in a detective.”

“He’s a friend,” Montgomery said, studying Hunter. “I called a friend.”

Hunter nodded back, understanding. But the case wasn’t quite settled yet. “Is Pavarotti still at your home?”

“Yes.” Thad folded his hands in his lap. He said, “I’ve helped Blaine take care of Pavarotti for one and a half years, now. I know what I’m doing.”

“There were things missing from his cage,” Hunter said. “You took them, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then the only thing left is what will happen next. You know the situation now. How you handle everybody involved is your decision.” Hunter nodded to Montgomery. “And that’s for you Warblers to decide.”

“Thank you,” Montgomery said. He touched Hunter briefly on the shoulder, before stepping forward. “Warblers.”

Hunter stepped back, watching as Montgomery led the group in a discussion, and then a vote. Pavarotti was a Warbler, after all, and it was only right that Pavarotti spent time with them, together. And they couldn’t bounce Pavarotti between dorms—it would be too much of a hassle, to move around that large cage constantly. The sophomore dorms had been a good place for them, but the sophomores weren’t the only group of close-knit Warblers who shared a dorm hall together. In the end, Pavarotti went to the freshmen to care for—Blaine was right, that caring for Pavarotti gave structure and responsibility. And the two of the three freshmen in the Warblers shared a hall. They would check with their dormmates, but it was unlikely to cause any problems. The sophomores would Pavarotti get settled, and were happy to help assist if the freshmen needed any help afterwards.

Kurt hadn’t broken and school rules, but his behavior had been unbecoming of a Warbler. Montgomery would be talking to their faculty advisor about the situation, but even if Kurt remained in the group, Kurt was unlikely to get any solos or responsibility in the future. Looking at Kurt’s expression, Hunter doubted any conversation or punishment would stick. But it was out of his hands, and Montgomery would rise to the situation. He always did.

As for Blaine and Sebastian, Blaine was enveloped in the other Warblers, eager to know more about his relationship with Sebastian, cheerfully heckling him about how long they’d kept the whole thing under wraps. There were more than a few suspicious looks thrown Kurt’s way. David drew Thad away, giving him a lecture about communication and taking on too much responsibility before he needed to. Sebastian paused to give Thad an affectionate punch on the shoulder. 

Hunter turned to Montgomery, who, situation settled to his satisfaction, had come back to him. “Clarington,” he said.

“Montgomery.” Hunter nodded back.

Montgomery gave him a smile. “I knew I could count on you to get to the root of the matter.”

Hunter eyed Blaine and Sebastian. Sebastian had gone back to Blaine, and had an arm slung over his shoulder. Not a weight pulling him down, but a bulwark against any worries. 

He met Montgomery’s smile with a smirk of his own. “Call me next time you have any problems.”

“Will you answer?”

Sebastian leaned down to whisper something in Blaine’s ear. Blaine flushed, and he shoved Sebastian, who laughed back. The other Warblers eyed them with expressions that indicated they couldn’t believe they’d missed this obvious dynamic before. Their affection was open and on display, and in light of that, all of their previous interactions were painted in a new light.

Hunter looked away. Montgomery’s face was open, grateful, even affectionate. Hunter had walked away from him years ago, and still, Montgomery had called him when he needed him. Hunter had always been the first person Montgomery called when he needed information, and looking at Blaine and Sebastian, he was starting to understand why. “Yeah,” he said, thinking about two years ago, and the silence afterwards. “I will.”

And Montgomery—Wesley—said, “I’ll call.”

**Author's Note:**

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